I Believe In You
by Marius blowthebaricade
Summary: "Shoot me," the rebel replied, seemingly fearlessly, proudly, majestically, honorably, and boldly. It became clear at this moment that the young revolutionary leader was ready to die for the Revolution, for freedom, and for all of his dead friends.
1. Enjolras

~Enjolras~

"Look here! This man is their leader! It was he who killed the artillery man! Let us shoot him now!"

"Shoot me," the rebel replied, seemingly fearlessly, proudly, majestically, honorably, and boldly. It became clear at this moment that the young revolutionary leader was ready to die for the Revolution, for freedom, and for all of his dead friends.

All of the others had been killed. Enjolras alone was still alive. His rebellion had failed, the barricade had fallen, and all of his friends had died. Enjolras had watched them each fall one by one, watched them cry out in agony as bullets, and swords, and bayonets pierced their bodies, as they fell to the ground, and as they died in a pool of their own blood. They were all dead. Marius, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Joly, Jehan, Bossuet, and Bahorel had fought along side Enjolras at the barricade, and they had all fallen. Enjolras watches them all die, in horror, in fear, in panic, and in pain. But in the midst of the raging battle, he had not time to grieve for them.

He had managed to take shelter in the upper room of the Musain Cafe, where his friends used to meet, talk, laugh, joke, drinking, gamble, and play during the day, although Enjolras never took part in these activities, and plan in hushed voices for the rebellion during the night. Enjolras had stood alone, weapon-less, vulnerable, defenseless, and helpless before the window in this room for a full three minutes, which gave him enough time to think. He had nothing in his hand save for the red flag, the symbol of the rebellion, the banner of the Friends of the ABC.

Now the rebellion was dead. All of his friends were dead. But now he knew that they were in a better place. In the land of freedom that they had always wished the earth to be. Now they had died for the sake of freedom. Now they were martyrs of the Revolution. Perhaps, others would rise to take their place and keep fighting. The rebellion had failed, but it was not in vain. Enjolras was grieved by his friends' deaths, but he knew that this was not the end. Now his friends were with God. Now they were free. Enjolras was ready to join them.

"Take aim!" the sergeant ordered, and several guns were aimed at Enjolras.

"Wait!" an officer stopped the guns, holding up a hand. Then he looked upon Enjolras and asked, "Do you wish your eyes blindfolded?"

Enjolras answered calmly and certainly, not a hint of fear or regret in his voice. "No."

"Was it really you who killed the sergeant of artillery?"

"Yes."

The officer turned back to the soldiers and ordered them, "Take aim!"

He braced himself for the impact and for the pain. Enjolras had never been afraid to die. In fact, he had always been ready to die for freedom and for justice. But now that he stood before these guns, now that he stared Death in his repulsive face and in his hungry eyes, Enjolras was afraid. His insides turned to snakes and began to wriggle within his gut, his lungs began to breathe rapidly as if he had been running for a long time, and his heart began to race and it pounded against his ribcage like the hammer pounding the anvil. Those moments of waiting, of waiting for death, were terrible. But when looking upon him, none of these men could have guesses that Enjolras was at all afraid.

"Vive la République!" Enjolras cried out in a loud, bold, brave voice, and then he raised the red flag high above his head, lifting up the symbol of the Revolution, the symbol of freedom, and the symbol of the Friends of the ABC one last time.

Just as the officer was shouting the order to fire, Enjolras heard another voice cry out from somewhere within the room. "No! Wait! Don't shoot!" Then, for less than a second, he saw the figure of a man step between him and the guns, holding out his hands as if this could keep the bullets from going any farther. Whoever this man was, he was trying to prevent Enjolras from being killed. But he was too late. Just as he was stepping between Enjolras and Death, the guns went off, and a deafening roar like thunder, like a storm, like the wrath of God, sounded within the Musain Café.


	2. Grantaire

~Grantaire~

Pain. That was all he could feel, know, perceive, or understand. He was in agonizing pain. For some merciless stretch of time that seemed like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes, he felt that he was trapped underwater, unable to breathe, unable to see, unable to feel anything except for panic and fear, unable to understand anything except for the pain. Then, at last, he submerged out from under these black tides, he drew in a deep gasp of air, and he weakly opened his eyes.

He was alive. How in God's name was he still alive? At least twelve guns had been aimed at him and had fired at him, but they had not killed him. Why? How?! Enjolras was lying facedown against the wooden planks of the cafe's floor, and his face was resting in a pool of blood. He weakly, painfully managed to roll over onto his back, and he struggled to sit up. Yes, he was definitely alive. He was still in the cafe, before that same window, but now he what fallen to the ground, now the soldiers had gone, and now the room was littered with overturned tables and chairs. Yet, somehow, Enjolras had managed to hold onto the red flag.

How was he still alive? Enjolras looked down at his body, and tried to find an answer. There was blood on his body, running down the side of his face where a deep gash had opened across his cheek, draining out from his nose, filling his mouth, as he had badly bitten his tongue and busted open his lower lip. His body was weak and sore, and in many places he felt sharp pains whenever he moved. But these were wounds from the fall, from the impact, from hitting his head against the floor, from something or someone slamming into him and knocking him over with the force of a bullet. The bullets had not touched him. How was this possible? Then, a moment later, Enjolras remembered seeing a man jump in front of him just as the guns were going off.

"Enjolras..."

He could barely hear the weak voice call him name, but he heard it. At once, he raised his eyes and looked around the room. He saw a man lying on the floor not far from him, half buried under the tables and chairs that the soldiers had recklessly thrown about the room in search of hiding rebels. Enjolras got to his feet, slowly and unsteadily but he managed, and then, using his sleeve to wipe the blood off of his face and spitting out a mouthful of red liquid, he quickly approached this man. It was Grantaire.

A skeptic, a cynic, a drunkard, a gambler, a rover, a libertine, and a man who cared nothing for the revolution, Enjolras had never liked Grantaire. He despised him, scorned him, scolded him, and openly and harshly rejected him. Yet, somehow, Grantaire had never stopped admiring, honoring, worshiping, and following Enjolras.

Enjolras had forgotten all about him. After he had drunk himself senseless after the battle last night, Enjolras had yelled at him to put the bottle down, to stop disgracing the barricade, and to stop being so worthless, Grantaire had fallen unconscious, and he had not been seen or heard from again. Yet, here he was at the final moment of the final battle.

When Enjolras came into his view and kneeled down before him, a deep look of relief and a faint smile appeared upon Grantaire's face. "Enjolras," he said again, acting as if the harsh words Enjolras had snapped at him last night had never been uttered. "You're alive!"

"Yes," Enjolras answered after a moment, his voice expressionless and lacking any hint of any emotion. "And so are you." Grantaire gave a weak, sad smile, and he slowly nodded. Enjolras frowned for a moment, looking at the heap of wooden tables and chairs that was on top of Grantaire and crushing the lower half of his body. "Hold on a moment, Grantaire, I will get this off of you." Before Grantaire had time to reply, Enjolras stood up, took hold of the largest table, and with surprising strength, he managed to pull it off of Grantaire, throw away a few chairs, and then take Grantaire by his shoulders and pull him out from under the pile. When Enjolras began to drag Grantaire out from the rubble, Grantaire's face instantly began to contort with a look of agonizing pain, twisting as he winced, clinched his jaws, gritted his teeth, and pinched shut his eyes, his entire body stiffened, his limbs trembled, his lungs heaved, his heart hammered in his chest, soft moans and whimpers of pain flowed out from his lips, and Enjolras could see him struggling not to cry out. But as Enjolras pulled him out into the open, Grantaire could not help it, and he let out a sharp cry. Enjolras knew that Grantaire had probably been hurt from being crushed by the tables. It was his assumption that because the drunkard had lost consciousness in this room last night, he had slept through the entire battle, the soldiers had seen him and thought him another corpse, thrown the tables recklessly on top of him, and left him there. Even seeing Grantaire in pain, Enjolras felt no sympathy for him. All of the other boys had sacrificed their lives as he drank himself into unconsciousness. Not until Enjolras had gotten Grantaire out from under the rubble did he realize that he was wrong. It was not just tables and chairs that had wounded Grantaire.

Lying on his back upon the floor, Grantaire's face twisted in agony, Enjolras could see him choking on the pain, his body convulsed, and with trembling arms he pressed his hands against his wounds.

First, Enjolras saw all of the blood: everywhere, all over Grantaire's body, completely painting him red from his chest down, soaking his cloths, covering his hands and wrists, pooling out onto the floor around him. Then, Enjolras saw the wounds: a bloody gash across his right thigh; two deep holes in his lower ribcage and in his left shoulder gushing out thick, dark blood, as if a hole had been put into a cask, and the wine came rapidly flowing out; but the worst of it all was the mutilation of his stomach. The bullets had come in at a lethal and horrible angle, not going into him from the front but cutting across his belly, slashing it open as if with a knife. Now, there was a large, deep wound across Grantaire's stomach, which now gapped wide-open. Grantaire held his wound, but blood came freely flowing out from between his fingers, and only his hands kept his insides from spilling out, as well.

Enjolras was never affected by blood or by gore. All of this time at the barricade, witnessing and fighting through three battles, Enjolras had seen much death, and while he was grieved to see his friends fall, it did not bother him to see death. But this... This was terrible, disgusting, repulsive, gruesome, terrifying... Enjolras found himself wanting to look away, gagging, and fighting off the urge to vomit or to pass out.

But even worse than the terror of seeing a man's stomach ripped open, bleeding, and dying before him, was the sudden understanding that struck Enjolras's heart like the blade of a knife. Now, Enjolras understood. It was Grantaire who had thrown himself between Enjolras and those guns. It was Grantaire who had taken the bullets for him. It was Grantaire who had saved his life. Grantaire, who Enjolras only scorned, rebuked, mistreated, and insulted, who Enjolras called worthless, cowardly, and disgraceful, had saved his life.

"Grantaire..." Enjolras heard his own voice whisper, as he stared in shock and in horror down at Grantaire's body, wanting desperately to look away but unable to do so. "Grantaire, you..." _ You saved my life, _he thought, but he was unable to bring himself to say it, for the guilt was too great. He swallowed down the knot in his throat and said instead, "Grantaire, you are hurt."

Grantaire painfully forced open his eyes, looked up at Enjolras, and managed to nod.

"You need a doctor, at once!" Enjolras declared, unable to hide the panic and fear in his voice. "You cannot walk; I will carry you." Enjolras quickly bent down, took Grantaire into his arms, and began to lift him up off of the floor. At once, Grantaire let out a terrible cry of pain, and he began asking, begging Enjolras to let him go, not to make him move, not to pick him up, telling him that it hurt him too badly.

Enjolras fearfully put Grantaire back down and laid him on his back, not because it put Grantaire in pain, but because Enjolras was afraid that if he lifted Grantaire, the man's guts and intensities would spill out of his body and onto the floor. He hesitated for a moment, his mind racing, as he tried to decide what to do. Then, he saw the red flag lying on the floor across the room, where he had left it. At once, Enjolras hurried across the room, snatched up the flag, and returned to Grantaire's side. He knelt down beside him, and ignoring the terrible, strangled, tortured sounds that escaped through Grantaire's lips, he quickly wound the flag around his waist and tied it tightly, so that it held in Grantaire's guts, holding them inside of his body. When Enjolras had finished, he looked down at Grantaire, whose eyes were tightly closed, whose face had contorted into a look of unbearable pain, whose flesh was now white but had that sickening grey look, like the shadow of death, upon it.

"Come now, Grantaire," Enjolras said, forcing his voice to sound calm, unafraid, and in control. "I am bringing you to the hospital."

Grantaire painfully managed to open his eyes, and when he did, Enjolras could see tears in them. He looked sadly up at Enjolras, his leader, his king. "Please, don't make me," he choked out, his voice weak, trembling, broken, dying. "Please, don't make me move again. It—" He abruptly stopped talking, and his words turned into a cry of pain. He threw back his head, pressing it against the wooden floor below him, and he tightly wrapped his blood-covered arms around the red flag that held in the wounds on his stomach, as if this could somehow hold back the pain. His eyes still pinched shut, and breathing heavily as he tried to force down the pain, he said, "It.. It hurts too much."

Enjolras stared helplessly at the dying man before him, this man who had saved his life, not knowing what to do. "Grantaire, I am trying to help you," he cried out at last. "You need a doctor, at once!"

Enjolras was surprised when a faint, bitter, yet somehow easy, as if this man was happy and at peace to stay here and die upon the floor of the café, smile spread across Grantaire's lips, and he shook his head. "Not even the finest surgeon in France could—" He choked on the pain, began to cough, and a spray of blood came forth from his lips, spilling out of his mouths, splattering across his face, and running down his chin. Yet, he fought to keep speaking through the blood and through the pain, "…could help… help me now."

Enjolras knew that Grantaire was right. He had been pierced with several bullets, which had no doubt hit his organs, severing and rupturing them. Grantaire had already lost too much blood, and his intestines were practically falling out of his stomach. There was no chance of his survival. Enjolras could have carried him to the hospital, but the doctors would not have been able to save him. This would only have put Grantaire through so much more pain. Yet, Enjolras could not just stand there and do nothing, and watch this man die, let die the man who had saved his life without even trying to save him. "But Grantaire—" he began to protest, but then he saw Grantaire trying to speak, and he fell silent.

"A doctor cannot help me, Enjolras. I do not need a doctor. All I need is—" He started choking again and coughing up blood. Enjolras could see in Grantaire's wet eyes, that he was afraid. He was afraid of dying. "—is a friend."

A friend. Enjolras had never considered Grantaire a friend. But now, Grantaire had given his own life to save Enjolras's. Now, Enjolras saw that everything he had once believed Grantaire to be was wrong. Grantaire was not weak, or cowardly, or selfish, but strong, brave, and ready to die for what he believed in. Enjolras believed in the Revolution, but Grantaire believed in Enjolras. He was not so different from the other boys. He was not so different from even Enjolras, himself. Now, if Grantaire could find it in his heart to forgive him, Enjolras would call Grantaire his friend.


	3. I Believe In You

~I Believe In You~

Hardly seconds had passed, before Enjolras collapsed down to sit on the floor beside Grantaire. Gently, slowly, careful not to hurt him too much more, Enjolras took Grantaire into his arms and held him, holding him tightly and closely, cradling his head against his chest so that Grantaire could hear his heart beating.

As Enjolras moved Grantaire's body to take him into his arms, Grantaire struggled not to moan and wince in pain, but a moment later, when he rest lying safe and warm in Enjolras's arms, his face, his body, and his soul relaxed. He let out a soft sigh and he laid back, finally at peace, finally happy to die in his leader's arms.

Grantaire's blood was hot as it began to soak Enjolras, soaking his clothes, sticking to his flesh, painting his body red, but Grantaire's body felt so cold. As Enjolras held him, he could feel him trembling. Enjolras pulled his body closer to Grantaire's trying to keep him warm. "I am with you now, Grantaire," Enjolras whispered, trying desperately to comfort this dying man, to repay him in whatever small way that he could, to undo a fraction of the cruelty that he had shown Grantaire in the past. "I will stay with you. You do not have to be afraid anymore. No one will hurt you now. It will be over soon, and you will be with the boys again. They will be proud of you." He swallowed down his fear and forced himself to say, "And so am I."

When he spoke these words, Grantaire opened his eyes and looked up at Enjolras. His face was so sweet, so innocent, so happy, like that of a young child, and a warm light lit up his face, so that for a moment it seemed that he was not dying but coming back to life. One could see the happiness in Grantaire's mind, his heart, and his soul. It was as if someone had just lit the flame within his soul. These were worlds that Grantaire had longed to hear for his entire life, but he knew that he would never hear. Yet now, as he lay dying in Enjolras's arms, he finally got to hear them. Nothing else that could have been said could have made him happier. Then, he smiled gently. "You are proud of me, Enjolras?" he whispered, his voice growing softer yet also sweeter ever moment, as if his soul was already departing into the land where all things are perfect

Enjolras, for the first time in his life, smiled at Grantaire. This smile was weak and sad, but it made Grantaire's heart flood with happiness and joy. "Yes, Grantaire," he said softly. "You were very brave. Very strong. I was wrong about you, Grantaire. You were right." His voice dropped to a whisper, and he found himself no longer able to look into Grantaire's eyes as he said, "Grantaire, I am sorry… about all of the things that I have said about you. They were not true. I was wrong. I am so sorry. You were a good man, a strong man. You... you saved my life... I owe you everything that I have... Can you ever forgive me?"

"You don't owe me anything, Enjolras," Grantaire said softly. "Of course, I forgive you. This is more than anyone…" He coughed, this time spraying Enjolras's coat and chest with blood. "…anyone else could have given me." He coughed again. "More than I could have asked for."

Enjolras holding him in his arms, keeping him safe, and warm, and close as he died was more than Grantaire would have hoped for. This was all he needed. This was all that he wanted. And now, Enjolras had called him a friend and had told him that he was proud of him. These were words that Grantaire had dreamed of hearing for all of his life but knew that he would never hear. Yet, now, just before he died, he had heard Enjolras say them.

Grantaire smiled and tried to say something. But then suddenly, greater agony shot through his body. He let out a soft cry, his body contracted, he bent over clutching at his stomach with his hands and arms, his eyes pinched shut, he gritted his teeth, and his face contorted in pain.

Enjolras looked helplessly down at Grantaire and watched him wither in pain, watched him die in his arms. He did not know what to do. He knew that he could not save this man. He could not give him anything to make the pain go away. But he would do anything in his power to comfort him. Enjolras held him tightly and closely, speaking gentle words. "It is alright, Grantaire. I am here with you. All of this will be over soon."

"Enjolras?" Grantaire struggled to choke out. His voice was soft, and scared, and sweet like that of a child.

"Yes, Grantaire," Enjolras answered softly.

"Will you stay with me? Until..." His body convulsed again, he clutched at his bleeding belly as more blood came up through his throat, and tears began to spill out of his eyes and roll slowly down his cheeks. "...until I'm dead?"

"Yes, Grantaire," Enjolras answered in a soft, gentle voice, like that of a mother speaking to her child. "I am going to stay with you. I will not leave you. You do not need to be afraid anymore." Enjolras slowly raised a hand to Grantaire's lips and gently used his figures to wipe the blood off of his mouth.

Grantaire struggled against the pain for a moment longer, his body tense and his face in a grimace of agony. Then, a moment later, he relaxed, lied back in Enjolras's arms, listened to his heartbeat, and closed his eyes. At this moment, he looked so peaceful that one would have thought that he had simply lied down for the night to go to sleep… had it not been for all of the blood. Even as his face grew darker and the light faded away from his eyes, now a new light seemed to fall upon him. A light from Heaven as Grantaire's soul took wings to depart.

Enjolras knew that Grantaire was about to die. Enjolras knew that now, he would speak his final words to Grantaire, the last words that this man would ever hear. But first he had to ask the question that would never stop tormenting him until he had an answer. "Grantaire?"

Grantaire opened his eyes and looked up at his leader. "Enjolras..." he whispered. Now, his voice was so soft, so sweet, so precious that it seemed that his soul had already passed into the gates of Paradise, and the voice that Enjolras heard speaking was the voice of an angel.

"Grantaire, you have always been so good to me. You were always ready to die for me." His voice dropped to a whisper. "You gave you life to save me. But... but I have always been so cruel and terrible to you. Yet, you still sacrificed yourself for me... Why?"

A gentle smile appeared on Grantaire's lips, his face became very unlike a mortal man but like a being of Heaven, and he looked up upon the face of Enjolras, happy to finally be safe in his arms. Then he opened his lips and said, "Because I believe in you."

I believe in you. Enjolras had heard these words before. Before the battle, when Grantaire was drinking and Enjolras was watching him scornfully, Enjolras had snapped, "Grantaire, you do not believe in anything!" but Grantaire had said, "I believe in you." Enjolras had rolled his eyes and turned his back on Grantaire, hearing these words with his mind but not with his heart. But now, these words first pierced Enjolras's heart like a knife and then melted it like the warmth of the sunlight of spring falling upon the frozen earth to melt away the frost of winter. Now, Enjolras knew that Grantaire's words were true. Grantaire had proven this at the price of his life.

"I never believed in anything, Enjolras," Grantaire struggled to tell him. His voice was so soft that Enjolras had to strain his ears to hear him. "I was so worthless, and miserable, and hopeless… But you gave me something to believe in, Enjolras. You gave me hope. And courage. And… and because of you, I was able to believing in other things, as well… Like friendship. And freedom. And sacrifice…" Enjolras could see Grantaire struggling to find a way to explain this better to him, to make Enjolras understand. "And in God," Grantaire finally said. "I heard you talk about God, and… and I believed. I believed in you. …But I believed in Him, too… I believed," he said as if trying to convince Enjolras that this was true. "I really did believe. I still believe…" He frowned for a moment, his eyes gazing past Enjolras and looking up to the Heavens above him. His face softened and he gazed up into the roof of this old café as if he could see the gates of Paradise opening beyond it. "And now…" he whispered, but he did not seem to be speaking to Enjolras any longer. It was as if he was speaking to himself or to another being of which only the eyes of this dying man could see. "…And now, I am not afraid to die…"

He suddenly, as if being awakened from a vision, looked back at Enjolras and whispered, "Don't you understand? I want you to understand…"

"I understand, Grantaire," Enjolras answered, and he was surprised to hear how soft, how weak, and how sad his own voice sounded. These things that he was witnessing before him, the change in this man, the light that fell upon his face as he died in Enjolras's arms, was incredible. Like witnessing a miracle from Heaven. At the same time, it was even more awesome and more terrible, because this man was dying for Enjolras.

"Do you believe me?" Grantaire asked in a desperate whisper. Desperate for this man who he believed in so strongly, to believe in him, as well.

"Yes, I believe you, Grantaire," Enjolras answered gently. He meant it. "I believe every word. I believe in you."

At these words, great comfort and great joy came to Grantaire. A bright light lit up his cold face, once more, and he let out a soft sigh of relief. "Thank you. I promise you, every word is true."

Enjolras stared down at Grantaire, wanting to tell him so much, that he was sorry, that he was wrong, that Grantaire was a good man, that he was as brave, as strong, and as good as all of the other boys, including Enjolras. Or that he was better. But he was unable to find words, and he was only able to gaze silently down at Grantaire, in awe, in gratitude, in shame, in regret, and in a longing to be able to make it up to him. He said no words, but just by gazing into each others' eyes, he thought that Grantaire understood.

A warm, gentle, and happy smile spread across Grantaire's lips, and he looked up at the man who he admired, respected, and loved so much. He would have followed Enjolras into anything. But now, it seemed, he would be happy to die in this man's arms, happy to give his life for Enjolras. "Goodbye, Enjolras," he said softly, his voice like that of an angel. "I still believe in you."

Then he closed his eyes, and with a smile still upon his lips, he let out on last breath. His chest sank and did not rise again, his head fell limply to lean against Enjolras's breast, the dark shadow that had been hanging above him fell upon him and enveloped him, his flesh became cold and dark like stone, darkness came over his now lifeless body. But his soul departed and soared out from the darkness and flew into the light. Into a light brighter than the sun, purer as the sky, deeper than the ocean, vaster than the plains, mightier than the mountains, and more beautiful than all of the beauty of this earth. The light of the One who created all of these things.

A shadow of a smile remained upon Grantaire's cold, breathless lips. He was dead.


	4. The Friends of the ABC

~The Friends of the ABC~

Enjolras remained still where he sat upon the wooden floor of the café, still holding Grantaire's lifeless body in his arms and gazing silently down upon the man's cold face. Both of these men, one alive and the other dead, were now the same color, red, as they were both soaked completely in the blood that still continued to flow out from the dead man's wounds. Now, Enjolras was alone. The café was completely silent. The streets were completely silent. The gunfire had stopped, the battle was over, and anyone who might have still been alive was silent. The world, it seemed, had fallen silent to behold the death of this man. Now, Enjolras felt completely alone as he sat surrounded by the corpses of all of his dead friends.

Enjolras stared sadly down at Grantaire's body, a hallow, empty feeling like a black pit inside of him. For the time, Enjolras could hardly feel anything, as his senses were numb and vague. In a few days, he suspected, the reality of it all would hit him, and with it would hit the pain, as well. As for now, a single tear slowly rolled down his cheek and turned red, bloodied from the wounds on Enjolras's face and from the blood that Grantaire had been choking up as he died.

Enjolras looked sadly down at Grantaire for a moment longer before he released Grantaire with one arm and raised a bloody hand to make the sigh of the cross over himself, touching his forehead, his heart, and then each of his shoulders, and leaving a smear of blood in each of these places. Then, he made this same sigh over Grantaire's lifeless body, blessing him with the sign of Christ, knowing that now, this man's soul would be in God's presence.

"Be at peace, mon ami," Enjolras whispered softly to this dead man. Be at peace, my friend. Then, he gently took Grantaire's face in his hands, leaned over him, and placed a kiss upon his forehead, kissing this drunkard with his pure, virgin lips, which until this moment had never kissed anything else. This was not a romantic kiss. It was a brotherly kiss. The kiss of a king to his fallen soldier.

Enjolras slowly got to his feet, taking Grantaire's body into his arms and picking him up. This time, Grantaire did not cry out and his face did not twist in pain, but his body remained still and lifeless. His head fell limply back and his hand hung dead beside him as Enjolras held him in his arms, cradling him like a child. Grantaire was not heavy.

Enjolras carried him slowly through the café, until they were downstairs where he gently laid Grantaire down on the floor. Then he went back upstairs to go into each room and search for the bodies of his friends. Inside of the café, he found only Bahorel. Bahorel was one of the biggest and the strongest members of the Friends, but Enjolras took him into his arms, nonetheless, and carried him down the stairs, across the room, and over to the place where Grantaire lay in painless sleep. Enjolras gently lied Bahorel down on the floor beside Grantaire, and for a moment he looked down upon his two friends, dead side by side. He remembered all of the times that Grantaire and Bahorel could have been found sitting at the corner table of this café, laughing, gambling, and drinking. In that time, Enjolras would get angry at them for this, but now the memory of seeing them there, knowing that he would never see them there again, made Enjolras's heart burn. Grantaire and Bahorel had been very good friends. It seemed right that now, on the day of their death, they were able to lie together and enter into the next life together.

He let out a heavy sigh, and looked around this lower room of the café, looking for his dead friends. He found Marius not far outside of the door, his face covered in blood from sword mutilations and thick, dark blood gushing out from the wound in his shoulder, where the bullet had pierced him. Dread and sadness twisted in Enjolras gut, even though he had already known that Marius was dead. Enjolras had seen Marius fall. Now, as he looked down upon Marius's lifeless body, his heart began to throb. He and Marius had been great friends. Marius had, also, ironically enough, been a good friend of Grantaire's. Grantaire and Enjolras had been opposites, but Marius was the link that fell between them. Enjolras kneeled down beside Marius body, and took him into his arms, carried him into the café, and laid him down beside Grantaire.

Enjolras then went out into the streets, into the bloody battle field, in the center of which stood the broken remains of the barricade. The sent of smoke still lingered in the air, but the repulsive stench of blood and of death was overpowering. It was still early in the morning. In the light of the rising sun, the sky was red, so it seemed as if the sky was reflecting the colors of this dead battlefield. The streets of Paris were painted red with blood, and the pavement glistened ominously in the light of the morning. The corpses bled, the streets bled, the sky bled. Bodies were heaped all around, the bodies of soldiers in uniform, the bodies of the citizens who had joined in the rebellion, and somewhere within all of these dead men, the bodies of the Friends of the ABC.

Enjolras searched through the bodies, often having to roll them over or drag them out from under the collapsed parts of the barricade so he could see their faces and know if they were his friends. It was hard to tell anyone apart out here. Everything was the same color. The sky was red, the streets were red, the corpses were red, their clothes were red, their faces were red, Enjolras was red in Grantaire's blood. He found first the bodies of the woman Éponine and of the little boy, her brother, Gavroche. These two had been the first to fall at the barricade, and Enjolras remembered where they were lying. They were not a part of the Friends of the ABC, but nonetheless, Enjolras carried their bodies into the café and laid them in the line. He laid Éponine beside Marius. She had died for him. She had loved him. At the barricade, she had taken a bullet for him. Just as Grantaire had taken the bullets for Enjolras. But in the end, Marius had been killed, too. Then he laid Gavroche beside Éponine, his older sister. Neither of these children, Gavroche of Eponine, had been given the life that they had deserved, but they were still brave, and strong, and ready to sacrifice themselves. Éponine for Marius, and Gavroche for freedom, just like Enjolras. Now, at last, Éponine and Gavroche were at peace to be together forever in a place of freedom.

He later found Courfeyrac, who was so friendly, so kind, and so generous, Feuilly, who was so hardworking, so brave, and so passionate, much like Enjolras, Joly, who was always so happy and in such a joyful mood, Bossuet, who had such bad luck but who only laughed and made merry of it. Enjolras had to search for quite some time before he found Jehan, sweet Jehan, who was so shy, so gentle, and so caring, as after the second battle, Jehan had been taken by enemy and shot quite some distance away from the barricade. But, at length, Enjolras found him. He found all of them. He carried them each into the café and laid them in line beside the others. Last of all, Enjolras found Combeferre.

He was lying not far away from the barricade, lying upon his back, his chest mutilated by multiple bayonet piercings, blood drenching his body, his face looking up into the red sky and to Heaven, his eyes still open but unable to see. Enjolras stopped and stood still in his tracks, as if frozen by fear, and he looked solemnly upon the body of this dead man. Combeferre had been Enjolras's best man. His guide, his advisor, his counselor, his partner, and his best friend. At the sight of Combeferre dead, Enjolras felt deep sadness and sorrow flood into his heart and closing in over it like dark clouds gathering in the sky before the storm hit. Enjolras slowly kneeled down beside his friend, moved a shaking hand over Combeferre's face, and closed his lifeless eyes. Then the rain came.

Enjolras felt that the bayonets that had pierced Combeferre, the bullets that had pierced Grantaire, the swords, the knives, the blades, the balls that had pierced all of his friends had suddenly pierced him in his heart. He bent over in pain, holding his chest with on hand and clutching at Combeferre's lifelessly body in his other hand. Tears came forth from his eyes, and he wept. He wept long and hard, his body shaking violently, his lungs heaving rapidly, and his heart trembling in grief. Tears ran freely down his cheeks, turning red as they ran through blood. He wept for Combeferre, for all of his friends, and for Grantaire, who had saved his life, and he wished that he could have died with them. For this terrible time, Enjolras allowed himself to be weak, and afraid, and confused, and lost, and in agonizing pain. But then he thought of Grantaire and a few of his last words to Enjolras: "I still believe in you." Grantaire still believed in Enjolras. All of the boys still believed in Enjolras. Enjolras would have to be strong for them.

He took Combeferre's still body into his arms, slowly got to his feet, carried him into the café, and laid him down beside the others. There. Now, the line was complete. Combeferre, Marius, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Joly, Jehan, Bahorel, Bossuet, Grantaire. Éponine and Gavroche. They were all there. All of the Friends of the ABC were there, and now they only waited for their leader to join them.

Enjolras gazed upon these dead friends, all of them lying side by side on the floor before him. Enjolras wanted to be with them now, but it seemed that his time on earth was not yet over. His friends would have to wait for him a little longer. They had all followed Enjolras into the battle. They all believed in him. At this moment, Enjolras swore to himself that he would not allow their deaths to go in vain. He would not fail them. He would not betray them. He would continue to fight for them and for freedom. He would keep fighting. He would try to be the leader that they all believed him to be. He would keep fighting for them, until he was able to join them in the free world that they all dreamed the earth to be.

He slowly walked down the line until he came to the place where Grantaire lied sleeping. He kneeled down before him, and gazed in awe upon his body. Now in death, he looked so peaceful and so beautiful like an angel. Enjolras let out a soft sigh and whispered to this dead man, "I will not fail you, Grantaire. I will not betray you. You will see."

_"Grantaire, you do not believe in anything,"_ Enjolras had said to him once, and Grantaire had replied, _"You will see."_

* * *

On the outskirts of Paris, near the edge of the proud forest, there was a green hill, where plants and wild flowers grew. Upon this hill there rested twelve stones, lying side by side in a straight line. These large stones were natural, untouched by the craft of men, but purely the devise of God. All of them were different, but all of them were beautiful. Some of them were white, others a marble black and white mix, and still some of them were large, smooth, and grey. These were not merely stones, however. They were graves.

Upon each of these stones, a single name was written. Gavroche, Éponine, Marius, Grantaire, Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet, Jehan, Combeferre. Below the twelfth stone, no body was buried, but upon it written by hand, in black ink, in letters that had faded over the years, it was written:

_Here lies the Friends of the ABC. They were students. They were children. They were young and they were innocent. But they had in them the bravery, the courage, the passion, the will, the strength, the heart, and the love that it would have taken to deliver France from her bondage and into freedom. These were great young people, and now they will forever be martyrs of freedom. God bless them and remember them in His kingdom. I long for the day when I can be with you all again. I love you all, as I have never told you in this life. Vive la République. Vive vos esprits. Long live your spirits. _


	5. Freedom

~Freedom~

"Look here! This man is their leader! We will shoot him, at once!"

"Shoot me."

"Would you like to be blindfolded?"

"No."

"Take aim."

Enjolras drew in a deep breath and braced himself for the impact, as the soldiers loaded their weapons and Enjolras stared into the countless guns that were aimed at him. Three years ago, Enjolras remembered hearing almost these exact same words, spoken from the mouth of an army officer and from his own lips. He remembered the battle, the death, the guns, the pain. It had been three years since the deaths of his friends. For three years, Enjolras had continued to fight on in their names, in the name of the Friends of the ABC, and in the name of freedom. Enjolras had continued to fight, and to lead, and to be strong, just as he had promised his friends that he would. He continued to fight for Grantaire, who had given his life for the man he believed in.

Three years later, Enjolras had continued to fight for the people. Now, the battle, which he had led, was over. The rebellion had fallen, but it would not go in vain. Enjolras knew that it would fall before he even began, just as the June rebellion of 1832 had fallen, but he fought anyway. Now, as this rebellion had died, others would rise and continue to fight. The Revolution would never die. It was immortal like France. So long as there was still injustice there would be a hunger for justice, so long as there was a hunger for justice there would be a thirst for freedom, and so long as there was a thirst for freedom the Revolution would live forever.

Now, Enjolras remained alone in the upper room of the Musain Cafe, in front of the same window, cornered by the men and guns that would soon take his life. Everything seemed the same as it had been three years ago when the Friends of the ABC had died. In fact, nothing appeared to be any different, except for the thin scar across Enjolras's cheek, a scar from the rebellion of 1832, a reminder that would stay with him forever of that day, of the wound that had been bleeding when Enjolras woke up in the café moments before Grantaire died in his arms. Everything was the same, except this time, Grantaire would not step in the way to save him.

Enjolras stared at the guns before him, and he waited for them to fire. He waited to die. He was ready to die. He was ready to die for France, for the Revolution, for justice, and for freedom. He was ready to die for his friends. He was ready to join them in Paradise.

"On my order," the officer commanded.

Enjolras was not afraid to die, but now as he stood only seconds before death, staring Death directly in his repulsive face, in his hungry eyes, Enjolras felt his heart begin to pound in his chest. The reality of it hit him. Now, it was all going to end. He was going to die. For a moment, Enjolras wondered what it would be like to die. He wounded if it would hurt. Would it be quick or would he lie there for hours in pain and alone as he waited to die? He wondered what would happen after that. Surely he would meet God. Surely he would see his friends, again. But what would it be like? What did it matter? If he could see his friends, he would be happy. But even still, he could not help but be afraid.

For a blink of a moment, Enjolras felt doubt in his heart. But then he thought of his friends, of Combeferre, of Marius, and of Grantaire, and the sacrificed that they had made, and he brushed it aside. He raised the red flag high above his head and cried out in a loud voice, "Vive la Révolution!"

Not a second later, the officer shouted the order, "Fire!"

Then the guns went off. Enjolras saw the spark of the guns, the bright white flashes like lightning. He heard the boom as they were fired, the deafening roar like thunder. He had hardly perceived either of these things, when he felt the impact as eight bullets pierced him, at once. For the first moment, he felt only the impact, like being hit in the chest. The air was forced out of his lungs, he was knocked off of his feet, and he could feel his body falling backward. The next moment, pain like fire, burning, blazing, eating away at his flesh, tore through his body, through his chest, through his stomach, through his limbs, and it blinded him. Darkness came over his eyes and he could not see. He was trapped in a world of darkness and pain. He felt like he was on fire, burning in the inescapable flames of hell.

The next thing he was aware of, he could see blurry images of a roof above him, of the Café Musain around him, of soldiers moving past him. He could see but hardly feel one of them nudging his body with their boot. His senses were weak and his mind was dull. It took several moments before he realized that he was lying on his back and that his body was bathing in a bath of his own hot blood. Somewhere within the room, he could hear a weak, feeble moaning, like that of a dying animal. It was a long time, before he realized that these sounds were coming for from his own lips, and he attempted to silence himself. He could hear himself breathing, and he realized that his chest was heaving, that he was choking on blood as it came up his throat, and that a thin stream of it was draining out through the corner of his mouth. He was in a lot of pain, but his senses were so distorted that it was more like a blanket around him than daggers within him. For several long moments, he did not understand. But then he remembered the guns, and he knew that he was about to die.

But instead of being on this floor, drowning in his own hot blood, he felt more that he was trapped under a thin layer of clear water, perhaps under a gentle waves of a calm sea, that he was looking up through the water, and that he saw the sun high above it. He knew that this water would kill him. But it was so beautiful, that he hardly cared about this.

As Enjolras stared up at the ceiling above him, he could see a light. For a moment, he thought it was the sun, but then he realized that it was not. This light was bright and strong like the sun, but it was so different. The sun is white, but it is not pure. It is tinged with yellow and marked with dark spots and scars. This light was completely white, pure, flawless, and perfect. It was brighter than the sun, but it did not hurt his eyes to look upon. When this light touched Enjolras and fell upon him, a deep wrath seemed to pass through his body, filling him, touching his heart, and enveloping his soul. When this light touched him, all of the pain seemed to go away.

This was the most beautiful thing that Enjolras had ever laid eyes upon. He wanted to get to this light. As he looked upon it, he tried to go to it, and the light began to get closed, larger, brighter, stronger, and more beautiful. Enjolras could feel himself moving toward this light. His body remained still and cold upon the floor of the café, baking in hot blood. It was his soul that was moving out of the darkness and into the light.

At last, Enjolras reached the light. He was filled with warmth too pure to describe. Indescribable joy, happiness, and love thrived within him, and he had never felt more complete. Then, finally, the light passed through him, and all of the pain, the sorrow, the torment in his soul went away.

Enjolras was standing in a place like that of which he had never seen before. This place was far too glorious, too awesome, too perfect to be of the earth that the mortal man knows. This place was perfect, divine, beautiful in its splendor, and awesome in its glory.

This place looked much like the earth, but he knew that is was not. The earth was a wretched place of injustice, of misery, and of deceit. The Devil was at work in the world, the land of which he had been banished to years ago when he had fallen from Righteousness. The earth was a dark, perilous, toilsome, painful, and burdensome place. People were homeless, hungry, thirsty, starving, cold, in pain, and in misery. They had to endure the pain of illness, of poverty, of jail, of the loss of a loved one. Other people were deceived into doing the work of the Devil. The earth was a wretched place, and man was a hideous creature. But here, in this place, everything was perfect.

This land like none that Enjolras had ever seen. It was of glittering rivers, tall blossoming trees, and endless hills that swayed with tall green grass that glittered gold in the light. The entire land was illuminated by dazzling light. The pure white danced of the surface of the rivers, making them look like streams of white diamond glittering and dancing and radiating light like stars. The sky was a clear blue color, much like the sky of the earth, but it was pure, clearer, and more perfect. It shone radiantly with the pureness of the light.

Enjolras looked down at his hands, and found that they were no longer covered in blood. In fact, not a drop of blood remained on him, not a scar, or a scratch. His entire body was flawless. Perfect.

"Enjolras," a voice called his name. The voice was powerful and mighty, like that of the highest of kings. But it was also warm, and in it thrived boundless love. When Enjolras heard this voice, a chill seemed to fall over his body, and he was entranced by the awesome power in the presence of which he stood.

Enjolras turned to answer to He who was calling me. There standing before him was the King. He was so different than what Enjolras had expected, yet, also, He was just like he had expected. Just as strong, powerful, and mighty. But even more kind, gentle, and loving. This was the One King who Enjolras would never raise a figure to rebel against. This was the One King whom he submitted to. This was One King whom he followed. This was the One King whom he loved.

At once, Enjolras fell to knees at the feet of the King, his head bowed, and his face pressed against the grown. Tears burst out of his eyes and ran endlessly down his face. "My King…" he whispered, his voice so soft that he could barely be heard.

"Do not weep, child," the King said softly. He gently touched Enjolras's face and, wiping the tears from his eyes, gently lifted it so Enjolras could look upon him. When He touched him, such warmth and happiness fell into Enjolras that he could not describe.

The King smiled. "All of your sins have been forgiven. You have done well." He gently took Enjolras's hand and led him to his feet. Enjolras stood still in His presence, stricken with wonder to see His awesomeness. "Well done, my son," He said with a gently smile, just as an earthly-father smiles when he is proud of his child. "Well done."

Then He outstretched His arms and embraced his child. His arms were so warm, and gentle, yet so strong and powerful. He was like nothing that could have been imagined. Enjolras had never been warmer, safer, happier, than when he held in His Father's arms.

Then, the King led Enjolras through His Great Kingdome. It was multitudes greater and more awesome than imaginable. There were countless numbers of people in the King's kingdom. As they walked, the sweet sound of joyous singing came to my ears. They came to a place where many people were sitting happily in a magnificent garden, which was in full bloom, the trees green, and the plants blossoming with pure white flowers. All around them, the garden glowed with a Devine white light, shimmering purer and brighter than the sun. All of the people were smiling, and talking, and laughing. They were all happy. They were all singing, in clear, joyous voices, beautiful like the voices of angel.

_We will live again in freedom in the Garden of the Lord!_

_We will walk behind the ploughshare,_

_We will put away the sword,_

_The chain will be broken, and all men will have their reward!_

_Will you join in our crusade?_

_Who will be strong and stand with me?_

_Somewhere beyond the barricade is there a world you long to see?_

_Do you hear the people sing?_

_Say, do you hear the distant drums?_

_It is the future that we bring when tomorrow comes!_

"Enjolras!" a familiar voice cried out beside him.

Enjolras turned his head to see who it was. At once, his face lit up, and even greater joy, if this was possible, began to burst with in him. "Combeferre!"

Yes, it was Combeferre. But he looked different. No, not different. Complete. He looked younger and happier. Not one line of sadness or worry stained his face. He looked at Enjolras and smiled. "Enjolras," he said quietly. "My brother…"

Sudden joy burst within Enjolras. He had never been so happy in all of his life. He could have stood there and cried of happiness for the rest of forever. But instead, he jumped suddenly forward and ran to Combeferre. They threw their arms around each other and began laughing and crying at the same time. They only finally broke apart when another joyful voice cried out, "Enjolras!" and he turned to see who it was.

"Marius!"

Marius laughed, and before Enjolras had time even to fully released Combeferre, Marius threw his arms around him, and they hugged each other as tightly as they could. Then Courfeyrac appeared, and Enjolras embraced him, as well. Combeferre, Marius, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Joly, Bahorel, Jehan, Bossuet, Gavroche, Éponine… They were all there. Enjolras's heart swelled with joy that radiated out of his soul as he embraced them all, pulling them into his arms and holding them closely. Then, at last, Enjolras turned, and his eyes fell upon the final member of the Friends of the ABC. The man who had saved his life.

"Grantaire!"

"Enjolras!"

Grantaire ran to him, and Enjolras, before he realized it, was running to Grantaire, as well. When they met, Grantaire was the first to immediate throw his arms around Enjolras's neck, pull him toward him, and embrace him as tightly as he could, causing them both to stumbled slightly from the impact. Enjolras hardly hesitated a moment before he wrapped his arms around Grantaire's back, and hugged him in return. Then, they held each other tight and close, smiling, laughing, and crying at the same time.

When he was alive, after Grantaire had died, and Enjolras had been left alone, there was so much that Enjolras wished that he could tell Grantaire, so much that he wished that he could change, so much that he wished to undo. But now, all of that was forgiven, a new life and a new beginning had started, and any quarrel that had passed between these two men in the past were forgotten. Now, Enjolras and Grantaire were brothers. They were all brothers and sister. They were all a family. As they all had the same Father.

Enjolras held Grantaire tightly against him, cradling his head in his hand and holding it closely against his shoulder. Then at last, Enjolras broke away from the embrace, and held Grantaire at arm's length, gazing upon him to admire him with pride and with joy. In the last life, Grantaire had always been dirty, poorly kept, with wild hair, and sloppy clothes. His body had been ruined by alcohol, his muscles were weak, his face looked sickly, and there was a wet redness to his eyes, his breath stank of liquor, and there was always a bottle in his hand. He was far from the handsome man that Enjolras was. He might have been handsome had he not been so consumed by alcohol, but instead he was ugly. But now… Now, he perfect.

He still looked the same, but his body, his entire being, had been glorified to its fullness, and he was beautiful. The wounds from the bullets were gone as if they had never been there, there was not a trace of blood upon him, not a bruise, or a scratch upon his flawless skin. His hair was still long, thick, curly, and somewhat unruly, but it was beautiful. His eyes, clear blue like the sky, were bright and joyful and no longer looked at all sickly or red from alcohol. In fact, there was not a hint of alcohol upon him. He did not drink it anymore. He did not need it anymore. Grantaire was perfect, flawless, beautiful. All of them were. They possessed an unearthly beauty, as it had not come form the earth but from Heaven. They each had the faces of angels.

Enjolras smiled warmly at Grantaire, who smiled back at him. "Welcome home, mon ami," Grantaire said quietly. "Well done."

"Enjolras," Combeferre said, laughing and smiling warmly. "We are so proud of you."

"I missed you," Enjolras said softly to them all. "…I missed you so much."

They smiled. "I know," Marius said. "But we have always been with you. You just could not see us."

Enjolras smiled and nodded. "I know."

"We have been waiting for you for a long time, Enjolras," Combeferre said softly.

"Of course, we were always with you, but we've missed you…" Jehan said with a gentle smile.

"And what does it matter?" Courfeyrac said happily. "Now, we are all together again! We will be together forever! And this time, nothing will ever be able to separate us again!"

"Yes," Feuilly agreed. "Now, we are together. Now, we are free."

"I have written many poems for you, Enjolras," said Jehan. "I will have to show them to you!"

Enjolras smiled and laughed, something that he had rarely ever done in the mortal life. "Of course, you have, Jehan. I would love to see them."

"Enjolras," Bahorel said, throwing an arm around his friend. "Wait until we show you all that there is to see here. It is so beautiful! You cannot imagine anything like it!"

"Yes, and there is not illness here either!" Joly added in with a smile. "No sickness, no diseases, no pain…"

"No bad luck either," Bossuet said with a chuckle, and the others laughed, as well.

"Yes, it is perfect here," Marius said, letting out a sigh of pure joy as he gazed at the beauty around him. "It is like the world that we always dreamed that France would become. Better even than that."

"Much better," Éponine agreed. She smiled as she approached Marius, and he gently wrapped his arm around her to embrace her. In the mortal world, Éponine had loved him. In this world, she still loved him. She loved him even more, even deeper, and even stronger. But now, she loved him as a brother, he loved her as a sister, and they were both happier than they ever could have been in the other life.

Gavroche smiled joyfully as he followed his sister, passed Marius, and ran to Enjolras. He smiled, and he took the child into his arms to hold him at his hip. "You were brave," Gavroche said with a grin.

"So were you," Enjolras said. "Well done, Gavroche. We could not have done it without you." He put the child down, and Gavroche continued to skip happily through the garden, singing of freedom, just as he had on the day of the rebellion of 1832. But now he was perfect and so was the world around him.

"Enjolras," Grantaire said softly bedside him, and Enjolras turned to face his brother.

"Yes, Grantaire?"

"I need to thank you for opening my eyes. If it were not for you, I would not be here."

Enjolras smiled gently and said to him, "Thank you, Grantaire. For everything. For saving my life, and for opening up my eyes, as well. You are a great man."

Grantaire smiled and said, "And you are a great leader."

"I do not have to be the leader anymore, Grantaire," Enjolras said. "Now, we are brothers."

Grantaire smiled and nodded. But then he grinned, let out a soft laugh, and said, "But, Enjolras. Do you think that I do not need you anymore? I still believe in you."

_The End_


End file.
